


loaded guns to our heads

by orphan_account



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Based on a Fall Out Boy Song, Chicago is So Two Years Ago, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fall Out Boy Creations Challenge, I'm Sorry, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Overdose, Light Smut, M/M, Minor Violence, Pre-Hiatus (Fall Out Boy), Prompt Fic, Swearing, basically everything's fucked up, i apologise for all of this, kind of abusive but lowkey, patrick's highkey an asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-18 22:41:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7333477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete falters on the first step and catches himself with a noose around his neck. He hangs himself in the stage lights, the cord of a microphone coiling at his throat. A thousand voices scream out to him and he hears them in four syllable mantras.</p><p>I still hate you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	loaded guns to our heads

**Author's Note:**

> [Fall Out Boy Creations Challenge](http://fobcc.tumblr.com/)| by: [westcoastwentz](http://westcoastwentz.tumblr.com/)  
>  Theme: Take This To Your Grave | Prompt: Chicago is So Two Years Ago  
> Word Count: 1.4k | Rating: M for sexy times, salty language and a teensy bit of violence  
> Warnings: Sexual content, swearing, violence, emotional abuse | Title: Loaded Guns to Our Heads
> 
> ((i'm sorry for any emotions this may influence. i swear i do love pete. i just also love to hurt him))

Pete and Patrick are a continuous cycle. Break each other down just to build each other back up. It’s exhausting and unhealthy and Pete doesn’t know how much longer he can continue.

-

Patrick plays a perfect melody with his hand down his pants, head tilted back, eyelashes fluttering against flushed cheeks. Pete wants to feel guilty for walking in on something he shouldn’t but it’s Patrick’s fault for leaving the curtains to his bunk open. His mouth slips open, lips slick from the slide of his tongue, and welcomes the moan pushed up from the back of his throat. Pete’s answering moan catches against his teeth and he bites down until it seeps through his lips in gasping breaths of air. Patrick cracks an eye but doesn’t flinch at the extra presence. His hand doesn’t slow either.

Patrick’s gaze doesn’t shift from the drop of blood Pete has bitten into his lip. Pete rolls over in his own bunk and forces his head into the pillow. He falls asleep to the sound of Patrick’s moans reverberating inside his head, like the sweetest lullaby, and wakes up to hands on his hips.

Pete pushes the palm of his hand against his eyes, trying to dispel some of the wooziness. It takes him a moment to recognise the wet heat travelling across his shoulder as soft lips, spit-slick and pliable. The hands at his hips dig in slightly, cupping the bone and pressing the flesh inwards. Pete leans back against what he knows is Patrick’s body and tilts his head to open up an expanse of untouched skin along his neck. Patrick, predictably, ignores this and instead flips Pete so that Patrick can roll on top of him. His hands travel ever further down Pete’s body, dipping under the elastic of Pete’s boxers, and he presses their chests as close as he can. His lips – soft, spit-slick, pliable – push against Pete’s own but close up at the insistent nagging of Pete’s tongue.

“Fuck you,” Patrick mumbles and the response is lost in the moan that tingles in the back of Pete’s throat.

-

Pete tastes the curse on his lips for days after. He showers the smell of Patrick from his body, washes the sticky patch out of his underwear and covers the marks with foundation pilfered from a make-up artist they met in passing. But, though he drinks bottles and bottles of water and brushes his teeth four times a day, he can’t wipe the curse from around his mouth.

He licks at it when he’s hungry, appreciating the way it burns through his body. It tastes like charcoal and fire and losing. Pete wonders what winning tastes like.

He writes.

-

Pete is Andy’s favourite. Everyone knows it. It’s the reason Pete always gets the front seat when Andy’s behind the wheel.

Sometimes, Andy is Pete’s favourite. Nobody knows it but Pete likes the calm Andy radiates. Pete doesn’t care much for the front seat but he always gets it when Andy’s behind the wheel. He likes taking a break from writing. (He likes taking a break from Patrick as well but he’s less inclined to admit that.) Andy never asks questions that he doesn’t think are necessary so Pete rarely has to explain himself when Andy’s behind the wheel.

Pete’s legs curl underneath him and he rests his head against the rain-streaked window. The street flies past in a blur of shallow puddles and white lines speeding beneath the wheels. Only the _STOP_ signs are in full focus. Pete can see them as clearly as if they’re the only stationary thing in a whirlwind of late night Los Angeles, the only colour in a world of blacks and greys. Red. Red like the pickup truck in the driveway outside. Red like the lips that left scars on his skin. Red like the hands that shook in the cold air. Red like the t-shirt pushed up to his chest. Red like the shoes that crunched in the snow. Red like the blood he should never have shed.

Pete closes his eyes and tears pool in the cracks where light seeps through. His head spins like he’s tumbling down through a tornado of paint spattered memories. He squeezes his eyes tighter to block out the red, but it appears in the stars that start to dance on his eyelids.

Andy doesn’t ask.

Pete feels sick. He cries in red.

-

Pete lands in the spaces between the steel strings and the fretboard. Two strings too many and this is a treble not a bass. Figures. The _G_ tightens against his stomach – a twist of the tuning peg, a pluck of the string – and he doesn’t know how to breathe in the absence of oxygen. His feet slip from their perch on the high _E_ and he tumbles again, fingers too weak to hold his grip.

He jolts into the passenger seat, his cheek cold where it’s pressed against the window. A glance over tells him Andy is still behind the wheel but he’s not driving any more. His fingers dig into the denim over Pete’s thigh.

“We made a pit stop,” he says in answer to the question Pete didn’t ask. Pete twists his head back to the window. It’s pitch black out and he wonders who had to piss this time. Probably Joe. He hopes they’ve pulled in at a petrol station. He could grab some aspirin while they’re here. He’s run out.

“How much, Pete? How much did you take?”

Pete doesn’t want to look at Andy. _Not enough_. He hasn’t taken enough in a while. He can’t blame Andy for not trusting him but. But.

“Don’t tell Patrick,” Pete says and bites his lip, still without looking. Andy knows if he’d taken enough he wouldn’t still be here. _Not enough_.

Andy sighs and his fingers slipping from Pete’s thigh seem to drain the last of Pete’s energy with them. Pete feels empty and tired and his cheek is numb from the window.

“He wants to help.”

There’s the muffled sound of the door slamming further down the bus and Andy’s hands return to the wheel. Pete wants to believe him. He really does. He’s just not sure how to any more.

-

They play a show two nights later and Pete has captured nightmares in rings under his eyes. Nobody asks. He’s handed a bass and clapped on the back and still nobody asks about the way his knuckles whiten as the lights dim and his foot bounces with the shake of his body.

Patrick taps him on the shoulder seconds before their cue and Pete knows better than to expect words of encouragement from the lips that press too close to the lobe of his ear.

“I still hate you.”

Pete falters on the first step and catches himself with a noose around his neck. He hangs himself in the stage lights, the cord of a microphone coiling at his throat. A thousand voices scream out to him and he hears them in four syllable mantras.

_I still hate you._

-

When Pete’s cheek swells up in purples and greens, Patrick is the one who cries. Pete runs fingers under the eyes that squeeze shut, like he thinks they could be the dam to stop the rivers running tracks down soft cheeks. Patrick doesn’t say sorry because that isn’t Patrick’s style but Pete feels the apology in the tears spilling over his fingers.

“You should have told me. I shouldn’t have to hear it from Hurley. Pete, why didn’t you tell me?”

Pete isn’t even angry that Andy told. He’s overdosed four times in the past fortnight and he knows Andy stopped trusting him years ago. Pete doesn’t say anything but his fingers still their movements on Patrick’s cheeks. He lifts them to his own face, pressing down until it tingles beneath his fingers. Patrick catches his hand before he hurts himself. Pete stopped questioning the irony of that long ago. Patrick’s fingers are pads of softness, so different from the knuckles that collided with Pete’s skin seconds ago. He rubs across Pete’s palm with deliberate slowness and it makes Pete’s body tingle in a different way.

“You’re bleeding a little.”

Pete has never cared less about anything.

 -

Pete and Patrick are a continuous cycle. Break each other down just to build each other back up. It’s exhausting and unhealthy but it works for them.


End file.
